Adjustments
by Raphiael
Summary: Isadora attempts to learn a new craft, not out of desire, but out of necessity. "You're a knight of Pherae, the guardian of your marchioness, the protector of her son. You can do this. You must do this."


**Adjustments**

**Author's Note: **This came about through a combination of an anon meme discussion (which I was a part of, heh), and a prompt following it. Wasn't sure I wanted to upload it, but what's the worst that could happen, right?

Prompt: _From the anon meme:_

_Honestly, I would love to see more "X was tortured brutally and as a result can no longer fight/changed their class to a completely different one (fighter to a cleric or somesuch)" stories. [...] someone who is ALL ABOUT their specialty, getting horribly hurt and forcing themselves to learn from one of the clerics or something so they wouldn't be left behind. _

_Would prefer a female character, with minimal to no sexual overtones, but a male character is fine too. Trauma, flashbacks, the pain of moving on? Break my heart, anon._

So, uhm. Not sure if I can say "enjoy" to a story primarily about coping with terrible injuries and torture, but yeah. Warnings for, uh, everything I just said.

* * *

The staff felt strange in her hand, so used to the worn hilts of swords and the heavy burden of lances. It was too smooth, too light, too thin, more like a toy than any sort of aid for the battles ahead.

"Hold it tighter," Priscilla chided gently, demonstrating with her own. "Be confident with it; you cannot heal if you are uncertain of yourself."

Isadora felt like a scolded child, despite all of Priscilla's patience. She mimicked the motions, though the mangled fingers of her right hand still couldn't quite wrap all the way around.

"That's better," Priscilla said, smiling. "Now, just lift it and give it a little wave, like this." She demonstrated again, slower this time, and then nodded for Isadora to try.

_This can't be too hard, right? You're a knight of Pherae, the guardian of your marchioness, the protector of her son. You can do this. You **must** do this._

Isadora lifted the staff, holding it tighter now, perhaps a bit too tightly. Her sword arm - staff arm? - quaked as she tried, oh did she try, to swing the rod as Priscilla had done before. But just as she finished, her weak hand faltered and pain shot up the arm. The staff clattered to the ground, smashing into pieces.

"It's all right-" Priscilla started, but Isadora barely heard her.

_You can't do this. You are a failure._

"Enough," she cut in. "This is a waste of time. I thank you for your efforts, but perhaps it would be best if I rode back to Pherae."

Ride back to disgrace, to humiliation, to the soft, stern voice of Eleanora saying, "Perhaps it is time you retire, Lady Isadora." There were probably worse things, but Isadora could think of none. It would be worse than the look of pity Eliwood had given her when Priscilla had come with word that her arm would never improve. Worse than the horror on Harken's face, even as he told her he still loved her. Worse, even, than the pain that had caused it in the first place.

She wanted to say it had been one of the morphs, though they all looked so similar that she couldn't possibly supply a name. Everything leading up to it was foggy. She remembered a fall from her horse, a crackle in the air, cold hands on her arms and legs.

And then, silence.

That, she remembered perfectly. Silence, darkness, isolation. Searching for her sword, her armor, finding nothing. Wondering where the others in her company were. Wondering if they were in rooms just like hers. Wondering if they were even still alive.

Things turned blurry again, there, though it was difficult to truly forget the hissing in her ear, the sensation of both arms being pulled too far behind her back, the crack of her fragile fingers snapping against the back of her good hand. She'd forgotten what they wanted to know, forgotten if she'd told them. When she tried, all she could see was the shock on Matthew's face as he'd forced the door with his picks, the shouts he'd given for Marcus to come quickly, the sound of morph hitting stone with a javelin through the chest. A sound she'd never have the pleasure of creating herself again.

"Lady Isadora," Priscilla said, sterner now. It was odd, how much like Eleanora she was. "You cannot mean that."

"I do. My duty here was to-"

"To protect Eliwood, isn't it?" The challenge was harsher than Isadora expected from the petite mage. It kept her rooted to the spot, though not a word slipped from her lips. "Haven't you said before that House Pherae may as well be your family?"

She had said that, through her tears, when she was told of the damage to her arms, untouchable by staffs, but she still said nothing.

"You don't want to abandon your family now, Lady Isadora, do you? How will you protect them if you're languishing alone back in Pherae?"

"How will I protect them now?" Isadora shrieked at last. "I can barely hold a staff, never mind a sword! I am of no use here!"

Priscilla shook her head, then pushed her own staff toward Isadora. "You must keep trying. We must keep trying. If we do not, what else do we have left?"

_If you cannot do this, you are a failure. Is that truly what you want, Isadora?_

Hesitant, she took the staff in her stronger hand.

"If we do not. . . we have nothing."


End file.
